I’m a normal guy, graduated from college in 2005
Don’t have a real job, still figuring out what to do with my life
I know all the cool bands and movies, and sometimes art even moves me
but there is one thing I’m good at and that’s wearing my howling wolf hoodie

It’s called irony, look it up in your urban dictionary
It’s irony, please, don’t take me seriously
It’s called irony, everything is awesome
It’s irony, like singing a guitar solo from Boston.

I never get stuck in a serious conversation
I have sideburns because I think they make a statement
about what? I don’t know, who cares
there’s even something ironic about growing facial hair

It’s called irony, I kinda know about politics
It’s irony, but I’d rather make fun of MMORPG-aholics
It’s called irony, everything is awesome
It’s irony, like singing a guitar solo from Boston.

So don’t try to include me in a generation,
And don’t try to sell me your freaking radio station
I’m past the point of being cynical, I’d rather celebrate
everything that you think I’m supposed to hate.

He began the project three years ago. It was a project that would test his patience, intelligence and his relationships. He just figured that if he could complete this project, he’d be on the cusp of greatness. That he’d rise to an echelon that only a minority dwelt in.

The first day began with much optimism. He came up with a solution within a couple hours. Then he put down the project at 2 am, his hands trembling, his mind seeing colors and rows and rows.

The next day, he almost undid his first day’s work. Even though he managed to salvage his progress, he didn’t get anywhere, he slammed down the project and considered giving up.

By the end of the week, he added to his first solution, but quickly changed his optimism to realism. Sure, he could maybe come up with a solution once or twice a week, but how long would it take to complete the project? And what if he made an irreversible mistake? That would be a disaster that could shake his ego.

So, he took a week off. He went outside, he hung out with friends. Saw some movies. Ate dinner regularly. Essentially, he enjoyed himself. But something in the back of his head kept nagging at him. He knew that he had to return to his project, that he had to work on it again, or else he’d live forever in the ordinary and not taste success.

He picked up his project with a renewed resolve, with a steely determination and a zeal that resembled his first day of work. He toiled. He tinkered. He tested and experimented. He’d think of an idea, try it and fail. He tried mapping it out on paper first, thinking he could make some headway. That didn’t get him anywhere. Doubt settled in. Maybe he wasn’t as smart as he thought he was, maybe that potential he thought he saw in himself was misplaced, that it was just an aspiration, not a reality. He told his mind to shut up, passed out with his project in his hands and missed the first half of his actual job the next day. His tardiness made him think about things. Perhaps this project is where he finds true significance–not his current job. He realized that while he was mired in menial tasks at work, that he was daydreaming about his project. That must be a sign. A sign to quit work and do something that really mattered to him. So he did. Now he had virtually 24 hours a day to work on his true passion.

A year went by and according to his rough calculations, he was 16.6667% close to completion. That’s not bad. He accomplished a lot. But not enough. If he continued at this pace, he’d be done with his project in six years and that was too long. Then he rationalized that this first year was thrown off by his working at that dead-end job for half the time, therefore he should be able to pick up the pace working solely on the project.

He never worked that hard in his life. He took up residence in a man-made shed in a forest just outside of town. He had a beard that was beginning to make him look a religious zealot. He stopped communicating with human beings. His sole purpose was his project. He brought it everywhere he went. Like when he was hunting for food in the woods. Like when he was bathing in the stream. Or when he was stealing corn from the nearby farm. Thankfully, he sold his mirror so he couldn’t get a realistic glimpse of the being he’d become. His hands had become arthritic and he developed carpal tunnel. His eyesight also changed as a result of constantly staring at colors all day long. The only self-maintenance he performed was the trimming of his fingernails–if they were too long, they’d get in the way.

A second year passed and he calculated that he was 50% done. He was right, he did improve his pace, but the end still seemed far away. Depression started to settle in. He would kill squirrels for sport–not food. He started throwing rocks at deer. He wrote obscene messages on fallen branches and threw them in the stream. But he didn’t see these instances as signs of depression, he saw it as something he needed to do to maintain his sanity.

He decided that a change of scenery might improve his speed, so he packed up the few man-made contraptions he had and hitchhiked all the way from the woods of Oregon to the Rainforests of Ecuador–diligently working on his project in whatever train, tractor-trailer or car he was in. He fashioned a hut out of palm fronds, banana leafs and what seemed like bamboo. He learned what bugs to eat and what fruits were safe. He didn’t encounter too many natives, but when he did, he managed to ward them off by dancing and flapping his beard up and down.

One night, when he furiously working by a slow-burning fire, everything clicked together. He had done it. He had completed his project that he started over three years ago. He screamed out loud. He started running towards civilization, holding up his project like a trophy. He entered a village and caused such chaos that the local authorities tranquilized him with a anesthetic dart and detained him. They quickly discovered that he was an American and alerted the nearest Embassy. Cross-checking his DNA with his fingerprints, they were able to figure out who he was and sent him back to Oregon.

Once he got back home, he cleaned up as best he could and called up his friends to tell them to meet him at a local banquet hall that he rented for this special occasion. About 40 friends, family members and co-workers showed up that night, itching to see him after all this time and anticipating what he had done in the last three years.

After a rousing dinner with music and stories of his travels, he rose to the podium and pulled a shrouded object from behind it. He spoke, “Friends, when you see what I have achieved, you will marvel at the capabilities of the human brain and become inspired to attempt the same project.” He signaled the local high school drum line to give a drum roll, slowly took the sheet off the project and revealed a multi-colored plastic cube. He raised it over his head, bowed and began to thank his audience. Except, no one applauded. No one even made a noise. They looked at him, looked at each other, some cleared their throat and some wondered what was on TV that night.

I was walking down the street, heading back to my house
It was evening time out, the weather was great, no doubt,
When I came across the guy, kinda straggly and craggy
Who was holding on real tight to a plastic baggy.
As far as I could see, there was nothing in it,
Yet he held onto it as if his life depended it.
We didn’t exchange pleasantries, I didn’t even nod
but he stared at me intently, as if I insulted his god
or his mom, or like I had a bomb in my hand,
whatever man, I don’t know you and don’t want your baggie or rubber band.
I just kept on walking, kinda shaking my head
and he mumbled something, but I couldn’t figure out what he said
It doesn’t really matter, it’s not some kinda cosmic event,
that’s just the scary bench guy, no need to get upset.

The scary bench guy
You know you’ve seen him before, don’t lie
The scary bench guy
He’s got a nasty beard and a stink eye.

The scary bench guy
Always wearing the winter hat, no matter the time
The scary bench guy
He’s not really bothering anyone or committing a crime.

You have your hat pulled low. You’re watching. You’re the mayor of the corner. “Yo money, what’s good?,” you say to the vendor walking by with his shirt cart. You chew your gum. You’re in charge. Can’t nobody tell you to move. This is your throne. You rule from it. You pull into your pocket and check your phone. You chew your gum. Nobody called, but you play with it anyways. That racing game. That flyin’ game. You read a text from yesterday night. “She crazy.” You chew your gum. You spit it out to the trash can, but you missed. Oh well. You adjust your hat. You adjust your dreads. You ain’t got nothin’ to do but a whole lot to think about. Like what’s going to pop off tonight. You think to yourself, “What is going to pop off tonight?” You don’t know. But something will happen. Maybe you should write something. Maybe you should go into the booth. Maybe you need some new shoes. Or a shirt. Or both. Gotta look right for tonight. You mumble a rhyme to yourself. Some old lady walks past and looks at you. You suck your teeth and pull your hat lower. “‘Chu lookin’ at?” Chill, chill, she probably got cataracts or somethin’, you think. Aight, office hours are about up, it’s time to bounce. But to where? To what? You don’t know. But you’re gonna act like you know. Can’t let them see the fear and the uncertainty. You’re the mayor, remember?